Stay
by bgharison
Summary: After everything fell apart, Steve went to Halawa and Danny didn't go to New Jersey. "Danny," Steve said, and it came out strangled, and desperate, and Danny shot him a sharp look. "Danny, what do you want?" Danny's head tilted, and he looked at Steve, his blue eyes turning wistful and inscrutable. "Mostly the things I can't have, apparently," Danny said.
1. Chapter 1

Steve stared at his reflection in the mirror. He didn't quite recognize the face staring back at him, and the dissociation was unsettling. Shaving would help, of course, the scruff was way beyond the usual five o'clock shadow or even weekend stubble that he'd learned to enjoy tolerating since being liberated from full time Navy service. It was the guilt in his eyes that was foreign and unwelcome. He'd made it a point to live his life, as much as possible, with a clear conscience and no regrets. And he'd succeeded, mostly, unfinished conversations with his father and a sense that he should have - somehow - done more for Mary notwithstanding.

But Danny . . . no, when it came to Danny there was no such thing as a clear conscience. Danny's eyes, meeting his, in the rear view mirror, when he'd said that things didn't work out with Rachel, because the kid wasn't his . . . Steve knew it for what it was, knew Danny was leaving out the part where maybe, just maybe, if he'd left that night, left Hawaii and gone the hell back to New Jersey with Rachel, maybe it would have still worked out. And Danny had tried to hide it, but Steve had seen the regret in his blue, blue eyes.

Danny was waiting downstairs for him now, fussing about . . . no wife and family to take care of, he'd take care of Steve, there was no question about that. Steve had never once had to question that, and he'd been selfish, selfish enough to let Danny stay. Tonight, sure, and also the night that he'd - _stupid, what was he thinking_ \- broken into the governor's mansion. Selfish enough to let Danny visit him in Halawa. Selfish enough not to quite hide all of the bruises and dark circles and . . . Danny had known, he would have known even without Steve letting him see, that despite the guards' best efforts they couldn't be everywhere, all the time, and more than once Steve had resorted to defending himself. Carefully, so as not to inflict any lasting damage. Just enough to stay in one piece, until Victor Hesse had -

He winced, he'd lost his concentration and forgotten to keep his arm away from his side. Shave. He'd shave, that would at least buy him some time before he had to face Danny. Danny, who'd given up everything for his sorry ass, the best friend he'd had, ever, other than Freddie, and no, absolutely not, he steadfastly refused to let his mind go there. DADT and Catherine and Rachel and just no, best not to dwell on all the reasons he could never have . . . Freddie's friendship had been enough, and Danny's friendship would be enough, it would have to be, and it was more than he deserved, and he was desperately, achingly thankful for it.

It took a long time, and two razors, and while the face looking back at him was marginally more recognizable, the eyes were still haunted. Steve knew, knew that it was guilt, and knew that he'd never hide it from Danny and his uncanny perception. He hoped that maybe Danny would just chalk it up to the trauma of a law enforcement officer incarcerated and leave it alone.

He squared his shoulders and tried to replace the bandage on his side. Max would have had a fit over him taking a shower, but he'd changed enough dressings, he knew how to minimize the damage and it didn't matter. It might scar a little more, whatever. If he couldn't swim, he absolutely had to shower, and yes, he was aware of the running water as a metaphor.

"Yo, Steve, food's getting cold," Danny's voice came up from the kitchen. He closed his eyes, pain and fatigue making him uncharacteristically self-indulgent, and let himself imagine Danny in the kitchen, as a matter of routine, after a tough case. It hit him like a punch to his already abused gut.

"Pull it together, McGarrett," he told himself sternly, and headed down the stairs.

#*#*#*#*#

It hadn't been a choice, not really, not when it came right down to it. Danny had called Rachel, begged her to understand, to explain to Grace, but he knew it in her voice. His second chance, his one and only second chance, was shot to hell as sure as a bullet had ripped through the governor.

When Rachel told him that the baby was Stan's, he alternated between disappointment and guilt. Disappointment because maybe it would have made a difference, after all. Guilt because he knew what his affair with Rachel had been about, really, seeking comfort in the familiar when he was completely and utterly blindsided by . . . the unfamiliar. The slowly dawning realization that what he had thought for so long was exasperated fondness for his friend and partner - _and boss, thank you_ \- was, in fact, an affection that went soul deep. When he'd realized that his constant complaining about Steve's propensity for shirtlessness was an awkward cover for attraction - _for lust, he's wrapped his brain around it, finally_ \- he'd bedded Rachel again at the coincidentally available opportunity.

He didn't deserve another child, not when he'd used Rachel to try to avoid his very inappropriate feelings for his very straight, Navy SEAL, explosion loving boss. Friend. Partner. Whoa, don't go there.. So, yeah, sue him, he was relieved that the kid wasn't his, not for the reasons anyone would think, and it was so complicated it made his head hurt.

No, he didn't deserve another child, and when it came down to it, he didn't deserve Steve, not if his reaction to this new reality was to dive in bed with someone else. He still had his regular visitation of his Monkey, thank God, and he still had a newly congenial relationship with Rachel, and he still had - no thanks to the population of Halawa or Victor Hesse or WoFat - Steve. His boss. Friend..

"It's enough, it has to be enough," Danny told himself firmly, as he stirred some spices into the can of tomato soup he'd rummaged out of Steve's pantry.

"What's enough, Danny?" Steve said quietly, padding into the kitchen.

Danny burned his thumb on the saucepan and cursed.

"Soup, the soup is enough," Danny said, "if I make you a grilled cheese sandwich to go with it." He rummaged in the refrigerator, hiding, willing the coolness to calm his flushed skin, long after he realized there was no cheese.

"There's no cheese," Steve said, finally. "It's okay, Danny, I don't need it. Go on, you have to be exhausted. I'm okay."

 _Leave, please leave, because I don't think I'm going to hold it together much longer,_ he added silently.

Danny slammed the refrigerator shut with more force than was strictly necessary, and Steve winced at the sound. Still, Danny couldn't bring himself to turn around, so he opened the refrigerator again, carefully, and pulled out two Longboards.

"You take any narcotics for that?" he asked, turning, and his voice was raspy. He gestured at Steve's side, still not meeting his eyes.

"No, I'm good," Steve said, wanting a beer, hell, a six pack of beers, and knowing it was the worst idea ever because his control was already bordering on FUBAR. Still, he grabbed the beer out of Danny's hand, flipped off the top, and took a few long pulls.

Danny pointedly reached into the drawer and pulled out the bottle opener, opened his, and guzzled half of it in one go. Steve felt his eyebrows raise. He'd be obligated, now, as a matter of safety, to offer for Danny to stay, and that was just the problem, wasn't it? Danny, _staying_.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out. "I'm sorry that you lost your chance with Rachel because you stayed. Because of me."

Danny shrugged and pulled two more bottles out of the refrigerator, placing them on the island. He rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned another button on his shirt.

"It wasn't meant to be," he said. "The baby isn't mine. Just as well I didn't find out after I'd given up my job here and moved back to New Jersey."

 _Given up his job,_ Steve repeated back to himself. _Emphasis on job._ Suddenly the kitchen was suffocating. Steve grabbed the second unopened bottle and headed outside. Danny could follow or not follow, he wasn't sure which he wanted, but he had to get out. He staggered to the chairs out back and collapsed. Sure enough, Danny's measured footfalls weren't too far behind, and in a moment Danny settled in the chair next to him.

"Y'okay?" Danny asked quietly. He'd apparently taken time to open his second bottle inside, and he took a sip, a slow, reasonable, measured sip this time.

"Yeah," and now it was Steve's voice that was raspy. "Needed to get . . . out. Sorry."

Danny shook his head. "Don't. Don't apologize, it . . . God, Steve, you were in prison. Prison. I can't . . . "

"You were there for me, though, Danny," Steve said, quietly. "Every day. It meant a lot."

"Well, yeah, I mean . . . where else was I gonna go?" Danny said wryly.

"Back to New Jersey," Steve said, staring at the water. "Back to a family, a normal life."

"I told you -"

"Yeah, but it might have . . . Danny, you stayed. You gave up the chance to even find out. For me. I don't know how you'll forgive me for that," Steve said.

"It's not - I thought I get around it. I thought I could make myself want my old life more than I wanted -" Danny broke off.

It broke over Steve like a wave. All the little touches, all the little glances, all the bitching about him taking off his shirt. Every single visit, every day, at Halawa. The constant, unwavering presence, the solid here-and-now-ness of him . . .

"Danny," Steve said, and it came out strangled, and desperate, and Danny shot him a sharp look.

"Babe? You okay?"

"Danny," Steve said again, turning sideways in his chair, mindless of the pull against his stitches. "Danny, what do you _want_?"

Danny's head tilted, and he looked at Steve, his blue eyes turning wistful and inscrutable.

"Mostly the things I can't have, apparently," Danny said.

"All this time," Steve said, "all this time, I thought it was only me. I thought I was the only one in this."

Danny felt it, that moment when the pieces just _fit_ , like he felt when he solved a case. When all the clues lined up and suddenly, it was so obvious. And of course, because Steve was an emotionally stunted Neanderthal, it was classic pigtail pulling, driving his car, calling him Danno, getting him hurt and then freaking out completely. Whipping off his shirt because God forbid anyone in Steve's past had ever let him think he was _enough_ , had ever told him that his _soul_ was beautiful, so he offered up his body. And yes, Danny had taken many psychology courses on his way to detective.

"This - what ' _this_ '?" Danny said, standing up, gesturing wildly. "You're gonna hafta say it, Steven, because I have been through hell and back here, and I can't take obfuscation and innuendo, not now, not with this. Whatever ' _this_ ' is."

" _This_ , Danny," Steve said, standing up as well, crowding into Danny's personal space, towering over him, testing a theory. "Us. This _thing_ between _us_." He cupped a hand around Danny's face, and Danny fisted a hand in his tshirt, carefully, of course, and on his uninjured side because that was so _Danny_ , always careful, always looking out for him. He looked down at Danny, saw his pupils dilate, felt his breath hitch, and yeah, theory _proven_ , except -

Danny pulled away abruptly and Steve felt his heart stutter and then Danny said _he had to call Rachel_ and Steve felt his heart stop. Just, dead stop.

He'd put it out there, Danny had _made_ him, and -

"Steve," Danny said, his blue eyes soft and fond, and he had a thumb on Steve's jaw, pulling his face down and he was saying something that Steve couldn't hear, at first, over the rushing of blood in his ears and it was . . . "Steve. I was horrible to Rachel. I used her, I . . . she was willing, believe me, it was consensual but - I was so confused, I didn't understand and . . . you have to understand, babe, I can't - I _can't_ , not until I've apologized to her. And she's the mother of my _child_ , Steve, and there's nothing, there's no part of my life that doesn't affect Gracie and -"

"I love Gracie, too," Steve said, only he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

Danny Williams was speechless and if Steve wasn't busy trying to get his heart to get out of his throat, out of his gut, and beat normally, he might have felt smug about that.

"Too," Danny said, faintly, and Steve did not feel smug.

"Yeah," he said. "I love Gracie, too."

"Like, I love Gracie, and you love her also," Danny said.

"That too," Steve nodded.

"I -" it was too much, Danny decided, "hold that thought. Please? And . . . and don't move. I am going to talk to Rachel, because the guilt is already eating me up - consuming me, as it were - and I can't add more to that. But I am going to _talk_ to her," he pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it up to Steve, "on the _phone_. I am _not leaving_. And I will be right back. Don't move."

Steve nodded and collapsed back into his chair. Danny, no one but Danny, saw through his bullshit and understood the depths of his abandonment issues. Danny, who was still studying him thoughtfully, because Danny also understood his instinct to leave before he could be left. Again.

"You're not going to, I dunno, paddle to Fiji?" Danny asked.

"It's not _Point Break_ ," Steve said absently, and Danny laughed, and they looked at each other and -

"Hunh", they said, in unison, and Danny smirked, and Steve smirked, and they each felt some of the unbearable tension in them unfurl, just a bit, and there was a sense that somehow, everything was, in fact, going to be okay.

"Okay, I'm gonna -" Danny gestured back toward the house and headed that way, dialing as he walked.

Steve stared out over the water again, the sound of Danny's voice washing over him and his thoughts swirling wildly. He finally resorted to combat breathing, not that he would admit it, ever.

Danny was back, collapsing in the chair next to him. Steve was afraid to ask, afraid to look, afraid to breathe.

"Danny?" he managed to ask, but without looking and without breathing.

"Well," Danny said, clearing his throat. His voice sounded normal and Steve thought maybe that was a good sign. "She laughed at me, I'll have you know. And then there were a lot of words like, 'latent' and 'oblivious' and 'about bloody time'. And then she assured me that our fling was about . . . well, she missed the fire and chemistry, she didn't really have that so much with Stan, but Stan was about security and normalcy, and she sure as hell never had that with me, and that's what she wants. She absolved me of all guilt in the situation. Which is typically narcissistic of her, but there you have it."

"Oh, that's . . . good?" Steve said. He wasn't sure that there was good news for him in all of that, but it didn't sound like Danny would be going back to Rachel.

"That's good, yes," Danny said patiently, "I can move on with a clear conscience."

"Oh," Steve said. That sounded good for him, he was pretty sure.

"And apparently my precocious daughter has been a step ahead of us all this time, so _this_ ," and he gestured between the two of them, "is not going to be an issue."

"Oh," Steve said again. "That's good." It did not escape him that he'd not managed more than those three words in a considerable amount of time.

"She told her mother, at the airport, that Danno would always choose her, always, but that the next person he would choose, over anyone, would be Steve. Told Rachel not to be sad, she had StepStan - we hadn't told Gracie, she had no idea that we . . . she didn't know. And that Danno had Steve. So everyone has someone, and no one needs to be sad," Danny said. "My little girl. She knew, Steven, she _knew_ , before we got our heads out of our asses that . . . we were together. That we belonged together."

"Together," Steve repeated, and his heart settled back into place, back into rhythm at the word.

"Yeah, you goof," Danny said, looking at Steve, his face open and full of fond exasperation. "Together. I have my daughter's blessing and her mother's approval, so there's absolutely nothing standing in my way. You got any reason you can't be with me?"

Steve stared at Danny.

"No," Steve said, his voice full of wonder. "I'm - Danny, I'm still in the Navy."

"I know, babe, but DADT has been repealed, remember?" Danny said.

"I can still be in the Navy, and I can - " Steve stopped, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Yeah," Danny said.

"I've never . . ." Steve chuckled. "Danny, I have no idea what the hell I'm doing."

Danny's blue eyes crinkled as he smiled at Steve. "Babe. In case you haven't noticed, that seems to be how we operate best."

And Steve laughed at that, his face lit up and open, and Danny wanted to remember it forever, that laugh, that smile, right alongside Gracie's first laugh.

"Danny?" Steve said, standing up, wincing. The pain and fatigue and hell of the last couple months was rapidly catching up with him. "I'm about to crash, partner. But can . . . I don't want you to . . . can -"

"Hey," Danny said, and his hands were on Steve's elbow, his waist, steadying him. "I'm staying. I'm staying."

"Yeah," Steve said, leaning on Danny as they made their way back to the house.

#*#*#*#*#


	2. Chapter 2

By the time they reached the back door, Steve's face was ashen and his breath was coming in pained gasps.

"Steven, do I need to call 911?" Danny asked, alarmed.

Steve gave a pained chuckle. "No, Danny, believe me, I've had much worse. It's possible that I overdid it today, though."

"Overdid it, he says," Danny muttered, nudging Steve into the kitchen. "Okay, well, first thing, we get some food in you. Second thing, I know you have some pain medication around here, and we get that into you." He turned the burner back on the stove and stirred the soup.

"Danny, you don't have to -" Steve started.

Danny turned and fixed his eyes on Steve, a fond smile spreading across his face. He stepped into Steve's space again, and steered him toward a chair. Two fingers pressed against Steve's shoulder were sufficient to press his exhausted body into a seated position.

"I know I don't _have_ to," Danny said, resting his hand briefly against Steve's neck, letting his thumb stroke lightly over his jaw. "I _get_ to. Right? I mean, that's what I think we just established out there." He gestured toward the back yard, awash in the fading rays of sunset.

Steve nodded in full agreement. He liked the way Danny's hand felt against his skin. Firm, warm, and strong.

"Okay, then," Danny said, smiling. "In case you hadn't notice, I rather enjoy . . . I don't know, taking care of people I care about. You think I drew the short straw or something, every time you had a concussion and I slept over?"

Steve looked up at him in surprise.

"Oh, babe," Danny said, and his thumb resumed its gentle motion and Steve decided that he really, really liked it. A lot. "You did. You thought . . . no, I was here because I wanted to be. Didn't quite know why, or how much . . . Rachel did, she informed me this evening, and also she has a theory about your propensity for getting shot or otherwise maimed so that I would stick around, which - wait, she's not right, is she?"

Steve shook his head and scowled. "No, that's ridiculous," he said immediately. "Except . . . okay, but when I _did_ get shot or . . . maimed, I actually . . . I appreciated it, Danny. That you stayed. I . . . wanted you to. This house, it's . . . I liked it. I like for you to stay." He looked up at Danny, hesitantly, to gauge his response.

"Your eyelashes are ridiculously long," Danny said, out of the blue, and while Steve sat in shock, blinking the aforementioned lashes, Danny went to check on the soup.

"It's not homemade but it will do," he decided, and pulled down two bowls from the cabinet. He carefully ladled the soup into the bowls and brought them to the table, then turned back to grab spoons and napkins.

Steve took a cautious spoonful. "It's'good," he mumbled. "Thanks."

"Figured, you probably took a couple good hits to the jaw, probably a little sore," Danny said. "Speaking of, you have a prescription."

Steve shrugged. "Max stitched me up. Didn't go to the hospital."

"Okay, but you have some stashed from one of your many other visits," Danny said evenly. "Come on, Steve, even you have to be hurting after what you've been through today." He fell silent for a moment. "And before today."

Steve turned to look at him, sharply. "I held my own."

"I know you did," Danny said, returning his gaze evenly. "I was there, every day, remember?"

"Yeah, I do," Steve said softly. "Every single day. I still can't believe you stayed. For me."

Danny beamed at him. "Turns out I'm very, very glad I did, Steven." He bumped his knee against Steve's and left it there.

The soup was polished off in short order and Danny put the dishes in the sink. Steve stood, biting back a curse as his side twinged in sharp pain.

"Okay, no more discussion," Danny said, taking Steve firmly by the elbow. "Where?" he demanded.

"Where what?" Steve asked, pissy verging on petulant.

Danny secretly thought it was adorable, but decided that was far too much to give away at this point in the game.

"Where are we going to get you some decent pain relief?" Danny said, steering Steve out of the kitchen and toward the hallway.

"Bedroom," Steve said, and then, because BUDs did not prepare him for this, not really, he honest-to-God blushed.

Danny grinned, wickedly. "Convenient." He shuffle-walked Steve to the stairs.

"Danny, I - that's not what -" Steve stammered.

"Relax, Super SEAL," Danny said. "I'm not convinced you're gonna make it up these stairs a second time today unassisted, and I can tell you from experience that couch will do your back no favors. So, I help you up the stairs. I find you pain meds. Pretty sure we can manage that with my virtue intact."

Steve thought about Danny's strong hand warm against his neck.

"Tonight, anyway," Steve muttered, as he crept up the stairs like an old man.

Danny snorted.

They crowded into the small but well-designed master bathroom, and with concerted effort and a hiss of pain, wrangled Steve's shirt off.

"What?" he said, as Danny stood, stock still, and suddenly quiet.

"I don't have to pretend not to notice," Danny said. "For two years, I've had to pretend not to notice. It's . . . God, Steve, do you have any idea?" His fingers twitched, but he was afraid to touch, afraid it would be too much, and Steve . . . "Hey. Steve. You said you'd never . . . as in, never? Never never? Nothing?"

Steve shrugged. "Not . . . not never. Just . . . high school football, Danny, I was really young and . . . then military academy and that was risky and . . . the Navy, there were a couple of leaves when I . . . with a civilian, never with a fellow sailor, it was too - it would have cost me everything, and then by the time DADT was repealed, I thought - I thought I'd convinced myself that it was just . . . that I could . . . "

"Shh," Danny said, letting his finger graze over the lopsided and wrinkled dressing. It was seeping, tinging pink with blood. "This doesn't look right."

Steve glanced down and frowned. "It got wet. Shouldn't be pink."

"Yeah, yeah, SEALs don't bleed pink, obviously," Danny said. "Gimme stuff, I"ll fix it."

Steve reached up into the linen closet to fetch a sadly extensive first aid kit, and Danny smiled to himself, watching the play of muscle over Steve's long, lean back, and Steve caught him, when he turned around. Steve smirked just a little.

"You know," Danny said, taking the clean bandage from Steve, "you could have . . . done something. Followed up. With someone."

"A prostitute?" Steve blurted, affronted. He'd seen the way Danny was just looking at him. He didn't need to . . . exchange money.

"No, not - what the hell is wrong with your brain?" Danny said. "You could have _dated_ , Steve. Anyone you wanted."

"I loved Catherine," Steve blurted. And he had, in his own way, just as she had loved him in her own way. "I didn't use her, Danny. I didn't lie to her."

"Hey," Danny said, pressing the bandage smoothly into place, and then looking up at Steve. His hand went on Steve's neck again, thumb back to his jaw, and Steve knew, already, that he would never get tired of that, that he would miss that so damn much if it was gone. "Hey, no. I wouldn'a thought that. I always wondered why you and she . . . you told her?"

"About us," Steve said, nodding. "I mean, about you. About me . . . wanting you. She knew."

"We've wasted a bit of time," Danny said, "not realizing . . . for a detective and someone in Naval Intelligence we were kinda stupid."

"Gracie is smarter than we are," Steve pointed out, smiling. Then his face fell. "Danny, you really want more kids, I can tell and I - there's no future with me, Danny, this is no life for you -" He bolted from the bathroom.

Danny could hear him pacing in the bedroom, and he sighed as he rummaged through the medicine cabinet. He emerged, victorious, a bottle of Vicodin in his hand. He shook it in Steve's direction.

"This looks promising," he said.

"Danny, nothing about this looks promising," Steve started, then stopped, sheepish, as he realized Danny was talking about the medication.

Danny laughed at him, shook his head, and grabbed the glass from the bedside table. "Stop freaking out," he ordered, as he stepped back into the bathroom to fill it. He came back, placed the glass and the pills back on the table, and made grabby hands in the general direction of Steve's cargo pants.

"Danny, what -" Steve protested, his eyes going wide.

"You are hopeless," Danny said. "Your knee. You've been favoring your knee all day. Would you - for crying out loud. You've admitted that you've hit a wall, you're obviously injured and in pain. What I'm trying to do here, Steven, is help you get into your nice comfy bed so you can rest, and take a minimum of twelve solid hours to let your body start to heal. Quit acting like I'm trying to molest you. That comes later."

Steve laughed, hard enough that it hurt his ribs. "Ow."

"Yeah, ow, ya goof," Danny said, fondly, and Steve wondered -

"How did I miss it? It's . . . " he reached out a hand, tentative, wondering if his hand resting against Danny's neck would feel as good, and as comforting . . . he took Danny's soft smile and the way he leaned the weight of his head against his hand indicated that it did.

"Okay, let's not do any more of the second-guessing," Danny suggested. "We figured it out, yeah?"

"Yeah," Steve said, nodding.

"Pills. Take two, according to the label," Danny said, pointing. "I'm gonna go down to the guest bathroom, where, thanks to your habit of getting injured and my habit of staying, I have a toothbrush, and I'll be -"

"Stay," Steve said, wrapping his hand around Danny's wrist, and oh . . . oh yeah, later, they were going to have to explore the shiver that he felt go through Danny. He tugged on Danny's wrist and then turned to open a drawer in his dresser. It was well-stocked with new toothbrushes and small toothpaste samples and -

"Powder fresh?" Danny said, holding up a travel size deodorant. "If you're trying to establish that I'm the woman in this relationship -"

"No," Steve drawled, and he let his gaze wander over Danny, shamelessly, because he could. He pulled out a toothbrush and handed it to Danny. "I was thinking there was no need for you to go all the way downstairs."

Danny's eyes twinkled. "All the way? All the way down one flight of stairs? That's too far?"

"Yeah," Steve said, soft, and there was something dark that flitted across his face, and an unfamiliar expression in his eyes, and Danny wondered if it was - it was, he decided. Fear.

"Hey, okay," Danny said, gently, like he would to Gracie. "I'm not going anywhere, Steve."

And it shouldn't have been that easy to make Steve look so happy, and the fact that it was both warmed and broke Danny's heart.

"Pills," he reminded sternly as he took his new toothbrush into the bathroom. He took a few minutes to go through a bedtime routine, finishing with plunking his toothbrush - loudly, on purpose - in the cup next to Steve's.

Steve was grinning when he came out.

"I don't know why you're grinning," Danny groused, because he knew it was expected of him. "Sharing a bathroom with another guy is not . . . one thing I'll say for women, they smell nice. Anyway, did you take the Vicodin, babe?"

"Yes, Danny, yes, I took the damn pills," Steve said. "And I don't want to hear you bitching tomorrow if I have nightmares and can't wake up. That happens sometimes, when I take . . ."

"Hey," Danny said, his hands moving deftly to Steve's cargo pants, back to where they left off. "Not my first rodeo with you, remember?"

"Yeah," Steve said. He was looking down at the top of Danny's head, bent over his . . . okay, whoa. Save that for later, too, because the Vicodin was already kicking in. Pity. Danny's hair looked soft, up close, now that he could really look at it, and it smelled good, too. His fingers went to it, absently, of their own accord. Yep. Soft. He remembered then how fussy Danny was about his hair and pulled his hand back. "Sorry," he muttered.

Danny looked up at him. "No need to be," he said. "Not here. Okay, what's going on, do you have a cut, or a - geez, Steven. Did Max look at this?"

Steve looked down, almost surprised at the dark purple bruise that engulfed his entire, swollen knee. He hadn't even noticed it when he'd showered earlier, probably because he'd been distracted by the pain in his side. "Um, no? I didn't realize . . . must have been during the fight with Victor. Or maybe when I went over the fence. No, I know," he said, snapping his fingers. "When I came out of the back of the ambulance. Yeah, that's when I did it."

"When you - oh for goodness' sake," Danny muttered. "Okay, easy does it. Sit down."

Steve sat down, obediently, on the edge of the bed, and Danny slid the cargoes off, tossing them in the general direction of the closet, and then carefully pulled of Steve's socks.

"Your feet are bruised and cut to hell, too," Danny fussed.

"Prison issue slippers. Deliberately made to provide little protection and traction," Steve explained. "Not intended for running the streets, if you know what I mean." He kept his tone light but Danny saw through it.

"You're out, Steve. Your name has been cleared, you're out, and you're not going back," Danny said, resting his hand on Steve's shoulder. His thumb traced over the lines of ink on Steve's bicep.

"I know, Danny," Steve said quickly.

Danny grunted noncommittally and then proceeded to check Steve over carefully for other neglected injuries. There were countless bruises, in obviously varied stages of healing. Some fresh, some almost faded.

"Steve, you . . . you're beat to shit," Danny murmured.

"It's okay, Danny, it's nothing," Steve said. "I've had much worse, believe me."

"The sad thing is, I do," Danny said, and there was nothing for it, really, but to gather Steve in his arms the way he'd been wanting to for almost two damn years. And the height difference, here, worked out perfectly, as Steve's arms slipped around his waist and held on tight, and his hand rested lightly on the back of Steve's head, cradling it against his chest, fitting perfectly, the way he'd always imagined it would. His fingers carded through Steve's hair, and he felt Steve relax against him, exhausted. "I believe you've had much worse injuries. But I'm not sure you've actually had a worse experience. I'm not sure there's much worse than being falsely accused and incarcerated by the people you were trying to protect."

"Damn it, Danny," Steve muttered, because Danny was right, of course he was, and it had been the longest, most horrific eight weeks of his life. It had been hell on earth and he hadn't thought that he would survive. Except Danny showed up, every single day, and sat on the other side of that damn glass. "I woulda died, Danny. I woulda died in there if you hadn't stayed."

"Nah, you wouldn't have, babe," Danny said, petting Steve's head with one hand and letting his other hand wander, whisper soft, over bruises, and over that gorgeous ink because, well, he could, and yeah, this was about giving Steve some much-deserved and rarely experienced comfort, but he was only human. "But if it helped, if it made it somehow more bearable for you - then I'm glad."

He felt Steve nod against him.

"It did, Danny, you have no idea," Steve said. Danny's chest felt solid underneath him, solid and safe, like Danny. All those times he'd grabbed Danny in a heartfelt hug after a close call, he'd had to force himself to let go, to step back. He'd been close enough to appreciate the smell of Danny's detergent and soap, but now he was able to really breathe it in, let the woodsy, citrusy scent fill his senses. And because the Vicodin was starting to take hold, of course, he had to tell Danny . . . "You smell good," he blurted out.

Danny chuckled. "Annnnd, we're medicated," he said. "Okay, Super SEAL." He put his strong hands on Steve's shoulders and aimed him for the pillows. Steve toppled over, gracelessly, and groaned. He offered no resistance - or help, Danny noted wryly - as Danny wrestled his long legs onto the bed. Steve turned onto his uninjured side, grabbing at his pillow and hugging it against him, snuffling a bit as he buried his face into the softness.

"Oh, babe," Danny sighed, rubbing a hand over Steve's shoulder before he pulled the sheet and light blanket up, covering him.

"Danny, stay," Steve mumbled, already half asleep. "Please?"

"Yeah, I'll be right downstairs," Danny said.

"No," Steve said, and had he been more awake he might have been mildly embarrassed at how close it was to a whine, close enough to make Danny grin. "Here. Stay here, with me, please?"

"Yeah," Danny said, not inclined to argue. Who was he kidding, anyway, he would have been upstairs in ten minutes to check and be sure Steve was still breathing. Sue him, he was a dad. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside, then shrugged and ditched his pants as well.

Steve cracked open one eye. "Knew you didn't wear boxers. Kono said boxers. I said boxer briefs, like me."

Danny turned off the light and slid into the bed. "You and Kono were discussing underwear?"

"Kono and I have very intro. . . very inta . . . Chin says very inappropriate conversations," Steve said. "Kono said boxers, because you're so traditional. I said boxer briefs, because no way your ass would like that in boxers. Oh yeah. I think Kono knows."

Danny flat out giggled. "Yeah, babe, I'm guessing Kono knows. Go to sleep, goof."

"Will, Danny. Sleep . . . you're here. Nights . . . God, nights were the worst," Steve mumbled.

Danny stopped breathing. "In Halawa? Nights were bad?"

"That too," Steve said, drifting. "Just . . . nights, you know? The worst when . . . when you're hurt, or . . . nightmares. Better. With you downstairs. Always . . . was so happy. Felt bad that I needed . . . wanted. But never sent you away, because . . . better."

Danny reached out in the dark and covered Steve's hand, fisted in his pillow, with his own. "Yeah, okay, babe. Better from now on, yeah?"

Steve pushed his forehead against Danny's hand. "Yeah. Stay."

#*#*#*#*#


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I forgot I had another chapter for this, just languishing away on my hard drive. Fluff, fluff, fluff. Enjoy.

#*#*#*#*#

Steve tried to stay asleep for as long as possible. Normally, he was up at the crack of dawn, but he knew from experience - a shit-ton of experience, he thought absently, and for the first time was a little bit resentful of that fact - that he was going to hurt like hell once fully conscious. He knew, too, that once he got up and got moving, he would be okay, he could push through, but even as he drifted toward consciousness, he dreaded the coming onslaught of pain and stiffness.

"The morning after is the worst, babe."

A soft, sympathetic voice filtered through to his awareness. And the smell of coffee. Rich, dark, Kona blend coffee, the kind he kept carefully stored in the freezer for when . . .

"Danny?" he croaked.

"Yeah," Danny answered, and it was 'of course' and 'who did you expect' and 'where else would I be' all rolled up into one syllable.

"You're here," Steve said, not opening his eyes, not just yet. But the coffee, that was tempting. And Danny . . . he wondered if Danny was carefully coiffed and dressed or if - he cracked an eye open, curiosity overcoming his reluctance.

Danny was sitting at the foot of the bed, a cup of coffee in hand. He was wearing a pair of Steve's running shorts and one of his old USS Intrepid t-shirts. His blond hair was shoved back from his face in damp waves, and he hadn't shaved. Steve gaped, speechless, and mentally cursed the drugs still coursing through his system.

Danny's eyes crinkled in a slightly self-conscious smile. "I, ah, borrowed some clothes from the laundry room. That okay?"

"Holy shit, Danny, yes," Steve blurted. "I . . . shit." He shook his head; he had thoughts, many thoughts, and strong emotions, but articulation was out of the question.

Danny stood up, carefully, so as not to jostle the bed, and came to stand next to the nightstand. He placed his coffee cup down carefully. There were coasters. Steve didn't even know he _had_ coasters.

"I remember when I was a beat cop, I came up on the wrong end of a drug deal, in a back alley, and had to call for backup, which took too damn long to arrive," Danny said, a gentle hand resting on Steve's shoulder. "I looked about the way you looked last night."

Steve's eyes widened as Danny lifted the hem of his t-shirt, and sure enough, there was a silver scar running along his - _very nicely defined_ , Steve noted - oblique muscle. Steve traced a finger over it, and Danny shivered.

"So I'm remembering how I felt the next morning," Danny said, and offered Steve a firm grip on his arm. Between them, Steve was wrestled to a sitting position, a grunt of pain escaping him despite his best efforts. Danny handed him the cup of coffee, and Steve took a few sips, closing his eyes in pleasure.

"Took the liberty of making the good stuff," Danny said. "I figured you hadn't . . . anyway."

"It was swill," Steve said. "The coffee at Halawa was swill. And there was no tea. Thanks, Danny."

Danny's fingers scritched absently through his hair, and Steve leaned into it.

"You're welcome," Danny said. "Okay, I'm thinking you need some Motrin, at the least, and probably not on an empty stomach. Eggs and toast?"

"I doubt there's any eggs in the fridge, Danny, and the bread is probably a science experiment," Steve sighed.

"Ah, that would be true, except Kono stopped by early this morning with some groceries," Danny said. "Speaking of which, you might wanna check your sent messages."

"How did - wait, what?" Steve asked, thoroughly confused.

Danny chuckled as he headed back down the stairs. Steve took another appreciative sip of coffee and reached for his phone, wincing as even that movement hurt. He thumbed to his message app.

SM: Boxer briefs. On the record, I was right, Kaloko.

SM: Kaalakoko

SM: Kono.

KK: Boss? WTF? 2 am brah.

SM: Oh. Sorry.

KK: Steve?! OMG r u talkin bout Danny?

SM: Vicodin. Nvrmnd.

KK: You are so busted.

KK: I knew it.

KK: Boss?

Steve groaned and rubbed his hand over his face. Well, it wasn't like Kono hadn't already figured it out. Before he had. Whatever.

He took a slow breath and levered himself out of bed, wincing and muttering a curse. His arm tucked protectively against his side, he shuffled to the bathroom. Hot water improved the situation by a large, large margin, and by the time he was dry and dressed in soft cut off USNA sweats, he was able to make it down the stairs without hunching over like an eighty year old. Improvement.

"Ah, God bless the inventor of waterproof bandages," Danny said, taking the empty mug from Steve's outstretched hand and refilling it. "Sit."

Steve sat, bemused, as Danny bustled around in the kitchen. All the times he'd caved, let Danny stay and tend to him . . . all the times he'd bulldogged his way into Danny's apartment, or more often, hauled Danny, protesting and gesturing, back to his house . . . this. This was what he'd wanted so badly that he'd been terrified to admit it to himself, much less to Danny.

Until last night. Until the pain and the fatigue and the drugs . . .

Wait. What if he'd imagined it? What if it was part of a dream, or a drug-induced hallucination, or what if he was infusing conversation with Vicodin subtext that wasn't there? What if Danny being here this morning was just his usual morning-after-injury routine and -

Danny watched as a myriad of emotions flickered across Steve's face, from fond amusement to wonder to . . . well, he must be mistaken, but it looked like abject terror.

"Babe," Danny said, frowning in concern. "What's wrong?"

"We - last night, I was pretty tired, and then I let you talk me into the pills, and . . ." Steve said, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Did I - did we - Danny, what -"

Danny put down the spatula and came to stand in front of Steve. He made a mental note of the fact that Steve, on a stool at the island, was at the perfect height - absolutely perfect - so that he didn't have to reach up this time, to cup a hand around Steve's jaw.

Steve's eye widened with relief, and hope, and Danny shook his head, because that uncertainty was entirely out of place and he was going to fix it. Steve's skin was warm under his hand, his lips dry beneath his, and Danny absently made note to check his temperature, because it wouldn't do for him to get an infection - and then conscious, rational thought was out of the question as Steve quickly took control of what Danny had intended to be a gentle, chaste kiss, for the person who had recently been shived.

"Steve, you're hurt," Danny said, mumbling against Steve's lips when he pulled back for air.

Steve blinked at him, his impossible lashes fanning slowly over his cheekbones. Which were flushed, and Danny remembered something.

"Fever," Danny said.

"Hunh?" Steve responded, eloquently. "I don't - Danny, I'm fine. I just - so last night, when I said . . . when I asked you to stay, and you said you would, you meant - because I meant -"

Danny shook his head fondly. "Yes, Steven. We established last night that we were ready to get our heads out of our asses and that you and me, we'd be . . . well, you and me. Us. Together."

Steve's hand fisted in the soft fabric of Danny's t-shirt - _his_ t-shirt, which did something to his hindbrain - and he pulled him in, his other hand sliding into the soft, unstyled mane of Danny's hair, as he tilted Danny's head _just_ the way he wanted. And it was even better this time, and Steve knew, he _knew_ that if Danny left, now, it was game over for him.

"You're staying," Steve mumbled, lips grazing a scorching path under Danny's jaw and behind his ear.

"Yeah, Steve," Danny said. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Not going back to Jersey," Steve said, and now he was just showing off, Danny decided, as he nibbled delicately on his pulse point.

"No," Danny said, breathless - and then because he was not going to let Steve get the upper hand, because two could play that game, he ducked his head and went for Steve's collarbone, nibbling a little less delicately, because he had a theory, a theory about someone who was as reckless as Steve and - yep. "Not going back to prison?" he added wryly.

Steve shuddered. "No, God no, Danny it was -"

"Hey," Danny said, head snapping back up, his eyes locking with Steve's. "I know. I mean, I don't. I can't imagine. And you're going to talk to me about it, really talk about it, Steven, I mean it, you're not going to keep that all bottled up inside, but first, we gotta get you upstairs, we gotta -"

"Yeah?" Steve said, his eyes lighting up.

"Yeah, no," Danny said firmly, because Steve's eyes were just lit up, they were suspiciously bright. "Steve, you're running hot. I think you've got a fever."

"Shit," Steve said. He sighed as Danny pressed his hand to his cheek, then closed his eyes and leaned forward as Danny pressed his lips to his forehead. "Hmm. "S'nice."

"I can gauge Gracie's fever within a half degree of accuracy," Danny said. "And I'm thinking you're about one hundred and one."

"I've had worse," Steve said stubbornly.

"Of course you have, and you probably treated it with treebark from the jungle of Cambodia," Danny retorted. He paused, waiting to see if Steve would respond.

"Neither confirm nor deny," Steve said, shrugging. "Just a little fever, Danny, it's no big -"

"Infection. Sepsis. Organ failure," Danny ticked off the possibilities on his fingers.

Steve pouted.

"Steve, you have two choices," Danny said. "I call Max, or I drive you to Queens."

"Tripler," Steve grunted. "Civilians go to Queens."

"Well, excuse me, _Commander_ McGarrett," Danny started, and then rolled his eyes as Steve grinned, slow and with unmistakable interest. "Hold that thought. Let me get my keys and shoes and -"

"I'm not going to Tripler," Steve said, indignant.

Danny closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Worse. Worse than Gracie," he mumbled. "Did you, or did you not say, that civilians go to -"

"I'm not going to Queens or to Tripler," Steve clarified helpfully. "Call Max."

Danny narrowed his eyes at him.

"Would you please call Max?" Steve amended quickly. "Unless you'll just drop this whole thing, let me take a Motrin and give me a beer, I'll be fine."

Danny shot Max a quick text message and waited for a response. "He'll be here within the hour."

"Fine," Steve huffed.

Danny threw up his hands and went back to making the toast and eggs.

"Danny," Steve said, leaning his head on his hand.

"Yes, Steve," Danny said, buttering the toast.

"Gracie's with Rachel this weekend, right, and we don't . . . there's not an open case," Steve said.

"Don't say it, you'll jinx it," Danny warned. "But you are correct."

"So, you'll . . ."

Danny plated up some scrambled eggs and tossed a couple of pieces of toast onto the plate. He carried it to Steve. He was going to have to be patient, say it as many times as it took.

"I'll stay," Danny said. "Steve. You got me? I'll stay."

#*#*#*#*#


End file.
